"Because every single one is about ME," Amelia declares.
"Joey!" I call out during a brief water break, leaning over the bar with what I hope is charm but probably screams dehydration. "Do you have emergency rations? Like, emergency bar snacks? For emergencies?"
He looks up from polishing glasses, his weathered face creasing with amusement. "What kind of emergency we talking about, sweetheart?"
"The kind where I might die if I don't get something salty right now?" I bat my eyelashes, which works better when I'm not seeing two of him.
He slides over a bowl of pretzels.
"Joey," I declare, already shoving them in my mouth with zero dignity, "I love you."
The night blurs into a kaleidoscope of moments. Amelia teaching some college girls her signature dance move (which is aggressive hair flipping), Daphne trying to convince Joey to let her bartend—"one drink, I swear, I watched a YouTube tutorial!", and me talking absolute nonsense to everyone at the bar.
I miss Vinnie. She'd know exactly what to say right now to make me forget all about Caleb Miller.
"Bathroom break!" Daphne announces, grabbing both our hands.
I stare at my reflection while Amelia fixes her lipstick and Daphne fusses with her top. There's a kind of grief in my eyes that only shows up after you stop waiting for someone to change. It doesn't scream. It just settles, quiet and heavy, in your bones.
"Your eyeliner's smudged," Daphne says, reaching for my face with that scary accuracy only drunk girls possess. "Here, letme—"
"I lied before."
The words crash into our tiny bathroom sanctuary. Daphne's hand freezes mid-air. Amelia's lipstick veers off course, leaving a perfect red streak past her mouth.
"What?" Daphne whispers.
"About me and Caleb. It wasn't just some awkward hookup." My voice cracks. "We kissed at the wedding, and I've been in love with him for so long that I thought . . ." A sob catches in my throat.
"Ivy." Amelia's voice goes soft. "We kind of knew. About the being in love part, not the wedding kiss. You look at him like he hung the moon, even when he's being an absolute trash panda."
"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Daphne asks, her hands finding mine across the sinks.
"Because you were happy," I interrupt, the words spilling out now that the dam's broken. "You came in talking about James, and how everything felt so perfect and I just . . . I couldn't be the one to bring storm clouds to your sunshine."
"Fuck that." Amelia's voice turns deadly as she wipes away her wayward lipstick. "I'm going to kill him. Not metaphorically. Like, actual premeditated murder. I've watched enough true crime to know how to hide a body."
"You'll get arrested."
"Worth it." She grips my shoulders, her gaze fierce. "And honestly? I already have a plan involving his delivery routes and some very creative use of pizza toppings."
"Pretty sure assault isn't the answer."
"But what about tomorrow?" Daphne asks, already reaching into her purse for tissues. "You're still coming to bowling, right?"
"Yeah." I dab under my eyes. "I'll show up and give him exactly what he deserves—absolutely nothing."
"You think you can pull thatoff?" Amelia arches an eyebrow.
"I have to. He'll do his usual routine; act like nothing happened, crack some dumb joke about it. But this time?" My voice steadies. "I'm not playing along."
"I could always aim for his toes when I'm releasing my ball," Amelia muses.
"No." I grab their hands, forming our own drunk-girl triangle of trust. "I need you both to promise me something."
They wait, swaying slightly in their heels.
"Don't make it weird. Don't start shit. Don't . . ." I exhale. "Don't turn this into some epic showdown. Please?"
